Gender Bender
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Against his better judgement, Mark makes a bet against his roommate- and loses. Now he's got to deal with a week as a woman and his confusing feelings for Roger at the same time. Something's gotta give. Marker slash. Oneshot. Happy early birthday to Inky!


**A/N: This one goes out to my dear friend Inky, whom I thought might enjoy a gender-based birthday present. I'm sorry I haven't been able to talk to you much since I've been grounded! But I miss you and everyone else, and happy birthday.**

Disclaimer: _RENT is not and has never been mine. I like to hope that it will be someday in the future but I'm a dreamer._

**Gender Bender**

It was times like these that Mark was reminded of all the reasons he used to hate Roger.

"Marky!" the guitarist was whining, far too close for Mark's comfort. Since his band had fallen to pieces and his relationship with Mimi had followed suit he hadn't left his roommate alone. And although the filmmaker was normally a mellow person, Roger was trying his patience. "Do something interesting. You can't just sit around playing with your camera all the time. It's unhealthy!"

Turning and arching an eyebrow, Mark resisted the ever-strengthening urge to strangle the pouting man beside him. "Roger," he began slowly, voice low and dangerous. "I'm working. Which is more than you've done in a week and a half. Go play your guitar or something."

He dropped his gaze back to the metal contraption in his hands, pushing down the bubbling frustration in his gut. _He's just being Roger,_ he thought to himself, gritting his teeth. _Ignore him and he'll go away._

But of course, Roger Davis prided himself on his persistence. He scooted closer on the couch until their sides were pressed together, leaning in so that his chin rested on Mark's shoulder and his gel-spiked hair tickled the filmmaker's cheek. Mark felt his eye twitch in annoyance, entire body tensing uncomfortably.

"Roger."

"Yes?" He could practically feel the shit-eating grin spreading across Roger's face.

"Get. Off. Now." Each word was punctuated with a deep, steadying breath. He felt his patience dwindling rapidly and hoped that, for Roger's sake, he was a fast runner.

It wasn't an incident that anyone liked to talk about, but all of the bohemians knew by now that Mark was strong as a motherfucker when you really pissed him off.

"How about this-" Roger weaseled, a note in his voice that was far too amused. Mark cut him off before he could make things worse for himself.

"No. No 'how about?'s or 'what if?'s. I want you to go the fuck away. Okay? Okay."

With a final huff, Mark nudged Roger off of him and scooted as far away from him as possible on the couch. There was a moment of blissful silence that he knew was too good to last, and then-

"Well someone's feeling bitchy today."

"ROGER." Mark snapped, head jerking up so he could glare over the top of his glasses. His roommate was regarding him with a mischievous smirk, relaxed and apparently unconcerned about Mark's failing sanity. The filmmaker found himself itching to smack that smirk right off of Roger's smug little face.

"Do you need me to go down and pick you up some tampons and a chocolate bar?" Roger simpered, eyes glinting with mischief.

"Roger, I swear to God."

"Oh, right. I forgot. I'll get you a bottle of Midol while I'm at it. Better?"

Mark's eyes narrowed, lip curling and heart beating in what he imagined was the pace of a hummingbird's. Roger just laughed, staring him down with those green, green eyes and damn it he was still attractive even when he was trying to give Mark a stroke. He reluctantly broke the gaze, making an annoyed noise in the back of his throat.

"What do you want?" he sighed, pressing the power button and shutting his camera off. Who was he kidding? He wasn't going to get anything done anyways- especially not with this pest at his side.

Supremely smug at his small victory, Roger reached out to bat at his hands, still resting on the camera. "I want you to put that thing _down_ for ten seconds."

"I'm working!" Mark protested, frowning once more in annoyance. "You do realize that someone around here has to occasionally at least ATTEMPT to pay the rent?"

"Rent?" Roger snorted and shook his head, condescending but admittedly right. "We don't pay the rent, Mark. And playing with your camera isn't paying any bills."

"Just because I haven't- because I have- have some trouble…" He felt his face slowly reddening and cursed his translucent skin for giving him away. Roger gave him a knowing look as he failed to string together a coherent sentence to defend himself.

"It's an obsession," he informed him, shaking a finger. "Come on man. Collins and I went looking for support groups for you, you know, but we couldn't find any other tech geeks in the area with cameras glued to their faces like that."

"It's a hobby. And- a career path." Mark's frown deepened and he internally winced at his lame argument. "For fuck's sake, Roger, it's why I came out here in the first place."

"Well, you finished your movie," Roger pointed out, shrugging. He stretched briefly and got to his feet, striding over to pluck the contraption right out of an unsuspecting Mark's hands. "Maybe it's time for a separation period. You might find that inspiration you've been looking for if you're not looking at it through a lens."

He scowled at the unexpected bust of wisdom and the guitarist stuck out his tongue, negating all pretense of seriousness. Snatching at the camera futilely, Mark tried to ignore the tickling in the back of his mind saying that Roger might be right. He hadn't had a decent idea in months, and no job opportunities had surfaced no matter how hard he looked for them. Collins had threatened to give his mother their address the next time he called if he didn't get his "scrawny white ass" out of the loft soon.

"I- don't want to," he pouted. "Give me that!"

"No-" The sound of the metal door swinging inwards made them both look up as Collins strode into the room, dropping his bag and shutting the door behind him. The tall black man blinked as he surveyed them- Roger stood over his smaller, paler roommate with the camera dangling tauntingly just out of his reach, and it was the best kind of comedy. His mouth slowly unfurled into a wide grin.

"You got that thing away from him? Damn, Roger," he laughed, congratulatory, and threw his keys on the metal table. As he approached them, Mark glared weakly.

"Collins, make him give it back! This isn't fair." Again, he strained his arms and reached, but Roger just lifted it higher with a wicked grin.

Crossing his arms, Tom gave Mark a look in response to his whining tone. "Now, boys…" he chided. "Play nice." The look he gave Roger was more amused than reprimanding, and Mark's frown deepened. He had the distinct feeling that the other two were about to gang up on him.

"As I was saying-" Roger said loudly, edging further away from Mark's grasping hands. "I think-"

"Roger, I don't care!"

"Mark, you're going to care!" Roger mocked.

"Boys," Collins warned again, but it was obvious that he was enjoying the banter. Mark threw him a desperate glance that he knew wasn't going to work. His hands were already twitching without the familiar weight of his camera. He shut his mouth reluctantly and waited for Roger to continue, glaring with ice in his blue eyes.

"I _think_," Roger emphasized, pausing a moment before continuing. "That we should confiscate this-" He wrinkled his nose and ignored Mark's loud protest here. "For a week. And if you can't go without it-"

"PLEASE. I could go a week without it. Watch me." Despite himself, Mark felt the last vestiges of his manly pride rising to the challenge, blood boiling.

"Really?" Raising an eyebrow, the guitarist smiled in a way that made his friend want to eat his words. "Then you won't mind if we put some stakes on it, hmm?" His voice was far too innocent. Mark faltered, regretting this already.

"What kind of stakes?" He snuck another longing glance at his camera. Why couldn't Roger have just left him alone in the first place? Now they had an audience, and Collins surely wasn't going to be helping him. The philosopher laughed silently at his predicament from a safe distance, smart enough to know that this could easily turn into a wrestling match.

"I have a few ideas…"

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

"I can't believe you agreed to that."

"Mo! I had to! He was giving me that _look_, he was so smug about it! And he threatened to HIDE it if I didn't at least try."

Mark's hands were flinging about as he talked, nearly hysterical. It had been three days since Roger had deliberately set the camera on his nightstand and warned Mark that he'd know if it had been moved. Already, the filmmaker found himself unable to concentrate. It was as if now that he didn't have the option, everything was worth filming.

Joanne cast him a pitying glance across the table, twirling her fork in her pasta absently. "Just don't think about it too hard," she advised, reaching for his hand to pat it supportively. "You'll be fine, Mark."

"Yeah. Roger's just being an ass," Maureen added, wrinkling her nose. She looked down at her plate for a moment and then looked back up with a wicked grin startlingly similar to Roger's. "But if you lose, he said I could do your makeup."

He winced. He couldn't help it. The thought of straightening his unruly hair and hanging a skirt from his skinny hips in lieu of men's jeans for an entire week was painful enough without Maureen's interference. God only knew what she would do if she was given free reign- Maureen had always told him he would make a pretty girl.

(Of course, maybe he should have seen the signs _before_ she left him for a woman, but that was besides the point.)

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Joanne quickly interrupted, biting on her lip to keep from smiling at the idea. She really did feel bad for Mark, but the thought was almost too good to pass up. "Maybe he'll lighten up if I talk to him."

"Doubtful." A deep sigh, and Mark slumped. He rested his head on his folded arms and closed his eyes, muttering the rest nearly unintelligebly. "It's al I can think about… I'm going insane."

"To be fair, you were already a little bit of a nut-" Maureen started, but Joanne pulled her into a kiss to prevent her from finishing. Or at least, Mark assumed that was what it was judging by the small, soft noises the two of them were making.

Several minutes passed and Mark looked up in exasperation. Just as he'd expected. Maureen, overenthusiastic as always, was straddling her fiancées lap in a less-than-innocent pose, tongue down her throat. Ew. Mark didn't have anything against lesbians, but he wasn't like Roger- he didn't particularly care to watch them get it on right in front of him. Right in front of everyone, really.

"God," he sighed, making an exasperated noise of discomfort. But neither of them seemed willing to break it off and, unsurprised, Mark slapped down a few crumpled bills for the tea that he didn't even drink before standing and shimmying out of the booth, leaving the oblivious couple to continue until they were, most likely, kicked out by the same haughty waiter who had refused to take Mark's orders for the past month on the basis that he never paid his tab either way.

As he strode out the door and onto the sidewalk, he repressed the strong urge to scream.

So much for his "help". It was going to be a long four days.

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

He had successfully made it six days without so much as looking at Roger's bedroom door. Mark was rather proud of himself for concealing the temptation that gnawed at him night and day. It was like high school all over again, except that now he didn't have a job that would eventually pay for the model he wanted.

There was a pause as he digested the backwardness of it all, but in the end he only shrugged. Who needed a job if the landlord never forced them to cough up so much as a dime?

It wasn't yet over. The strawberry-blonde had ten hours left until Roger conceded defeat and his camera was back in his possession. New York was in the grips of a summer thunderstorm, and based on the sheets of gray rain on the glass of their big bay windows Mark didn't think he'd be going much of anywhere, at least for the day.

Collins was gone again, off to a new job somewhere in Pennsylvania. He'd mentioned an Amish community- Mark hadn't been sure whether or not he was joking, so he had offered a weak laugh that could go either way. His friend had patted his shoulder and told him that he wished he could stay to see him in a dress. He hadn't laughed at that. But he already missed the Stoli-bearing, questionably sober and ultimately lightening presence of Collins.

Without him, there was nothing to distract him from his own whirling thoughts.

Roger was out. He'd said something about job hunting, which Mark had taken as "I'm going out to get drunk, so don't wait up." Apparently- and this was the kicker- Roger found him BORING.

"All you do is mope," Roger had complained, huffing impatiently. "You'd think I killed your puppy, not took your camera. Jesus."

Mark wished that Roger had decided that he was boring sooner- namely a week ago. Then all of this could have been prevented. He could be narrating this dull, rainy day right now to a camera that he knew perfectly well didn't record sound.

But no. Now, all of the thoughts knocking around in his head would have to stay there. Mark had never particularly liked phone conversations, nor was he comfortable talking to himself- alone or not. And it didn't matter either way, because he never planned to let those thoughts escape his head anyways.

First of all, there was Roger. Always Roger. One of the hardest things about not having his camera on hand at all times was the moments he missed every day with his roommate. Memorable things like Roger's attempt to juggle what Mark was reasonably certain were the rotten eggs from their fridge; unremarkable things like Roger lounging on the couch strumming on his acoustic. Everything about Roger was something he wanted on tape, so photogenic and precious and-

Truth be told, Roger wasn't going to be around forever. As much as Mark liked to deny it, he knew it was true. And he knew that part of the reason that Roger was so bothered by his obsession with his camera was that he _knew_ why Mark was filming every aspect of his less than spectacular life.

Then there was himself. Mark was an introvert and perfectly fine with the fact. But he loved his friends, all of them, even Mimi whom he hadn't seen since her breakup with Roger. And he never wanted to hurt them. So he never stated his opinions, never contradicted anybody, never rocked the boat… Because his feelings, if they came out, would certainly rock the boat.

Roger was his best friend. Granted, when he'd first met his cousin April's new city boyfriend he had hated him with a passion. A typical "rockstar" type with bleached hair, eyeliner rimming his eyes, one ear pierced and then, a week later, the other. Obnoxious. Callous. The opposite of sweet, kind, respectful Mark with his good intentions and his quiet demeanor. But now he was _Roger_, the guy who had, after years of living with him and occasionally even sleeping in the same bed when the loft was overcrowded, become his closest friend.

And jack-off material.

There was no other way to put it. He had a _thing _for straight, HIV+ Roger who he already had no doubts would never have a _thing_ for him. Despite that, he still found him popping up in his dreams and his daydreams and his shower fantasies.

Mark was completely and totally fucked.

Moodily, he sat at the table nursing a hot mug of tea and staring out the window into the dreary August day. His thoughts lingered on his roommate no matter how hard he tried to move onto another subject, some of them less than appropriate. His hands itched for the camera that was only a quick trip to Roger's bedroom away.

It was hard to swallow the fact that Roger was right. He was _Mark_- he was supposed to be the rational one! And here he was, going crazy over a piece of metal that he wasn't allowed to have.

But who was Roger to dictate the definition of obsession? In fact- Mark was warming up to the idea quite fast- his camera was a coping mechanism. Yeah! There was a perfectly plausible reason for his constant use of the small machine. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, the blue-eyed filmmaker took a gulp of his tea and stood as he swallowed it, pacing to Roger's bedroom door determinedly.

Who would honestly know if he took his camera for an hour or two and summarized the days he'd missed? He knew that it couldn't actually hear him, couldn't even record his voice, but it was comforting. Years from now he would still remember this day, he was sure- all he needed was a label, a little white scrap of paper and a word scribbled onto it in pen and he would remember. When Roger was gone all he would have was his mind and his box full of film reels. And he wanted it to be as full as possible.

He would remember, and that was what mattered.

Unfortunately for Mark, he had never had the best of luck. And his bad luck chose this particular rainy day to act up.

It seemed as though the moment his hand rested on the cool, metallic surface and wiped away the thin film of dust that the front door burst open, bringing with it an explosion of noise and the sudden unavoidable certainty that Mark would lose his bet. He jerked his hand away, but judging by Roger's rapidly approaching footsteps it was too late to make a run for it. He dived behind the bed, tense and panicked, and tried to crouch down so that he was out of view of the door. Keeping his ears pricked, he closed his eyes and tried to slow his frantic heartbeat.

He would be DAMNED if he was going to let Roger force him into a dress. It wasn't like Roger hadn't humiliated him enough in this lifetime.

"Mark! Hey, where'd you go?" called the familiar rough voice. It wasn't even slurring- dammit! If Roger didn't get drunk then where the hell had he been? _Actually_ looking for a job? It would be just Mark's luck that Roger chose to be responsible on the same day that he chose to take a risk.

How was he going to get out of this?

Staying completely silent, Mark sunk lower to the floor and cursed his poor timing. Roger's sneakers on the floor were heard approaching the door, louder and louder and he wished desperately that Roger would leave and let him dash into his room, pretending to be asleep. No such luck. The rocker stepped into his room, setting down something- Mark assumed it was his guitar- with a thunk. "Mark?" he called again. The filmmaker imagined him furrowing his eyebrows in confusion, slowly smiling as it occurred to him. He groaned quietly to himself.

"Mark?" Tone level now, Roger casually continued into his room, sounding positively gleeful. "My door was shut."

Well, this was it. He was caught. Not wanting to look even more ridiculous than he already did, Mark sighed and sat up, head popping up over the side of the bed as he waved a hand in defeat. "Here." He winced as Roger made his way over to him and pinched his cheek, laughing maniacally.

"You're going to look so _pretty_."

"You're such an ass." Scowling, the filmmaker stood and brushed himself off- God only knew what was probably growing on Roger's floor. His room hadn't been cleaned, to Mark's knowledge, in over two years. "I didn't technically-"

His final, weak attempt at dodging the bullet was cut short by Roger's snort. "You're not getting out on a technicality. For the next week, you're my bitch." Sounding far too happy about that, the guitarist whirled and strode back out of the room. The frowning filmmaker followed more slowly, snatching his camera up, apprehensive.

"What are you-"

"Hey, Johnson- you owe me five bucks." Roger was smirking triumphantly, the phone to his ear. Mark swore he could hear Maureen's delighted shrieking even from across the room. Already dreading the week to come, he flopped onto the couch and held his camera close, pressing the power button. He ignored the rest of Roger's victorious conversation in the background, turning the contraption toward him for possibly the first time.

"June twenty-sixth, 1991." He glanced quickly at the clock before continuing. "Four p.m., Eastern Standard Time. Roger succeeds in damning me to eternity in hell. Otherwise known as a week as a woman." The camera was again turned, this time towards Roger. Cheerfully, Roger stuck out his tongue and waved.

"June twenty-sixth," he mocked. "Mark is a sore loser, but it's okay because Maureen is coming over to do his hair."

Visibly wincing, Mark shut the power off and cradled the camera to his chest. At the very least he had this back. He wouldn't be missing any more precious memories.

He just wasn't sure he wanted the ones of him in a skirt…

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

"I hate you."

"I know."

Mark fought the real urge to growl at Maureen's smug tone. Joanne just chuckled, guiding him slowly across the loft floor. The clutter had been cleared away in order to create an empty space for Mark to practice on, but so far it hadn't prevented him from tripping. The only thing keeping him upright now was a pair of chocolate-colored hands on his shoulders, helping him maneuver his way across the room in a pair of shiny black heels.

"Why do women _wear_ these?" he grumbled for the fourteenth time. "They're uncomfortable, impractical- and they don't even LOOK good."

The drama queen leaned forward to ruffle his hair. He would have shaken her off if he wasn't afraid of permanently bruising his ass. "Oh, you just don't have any fashion sense. Don't worry, baby, I'll teach you." Flouncing away, she giggled. "It'll be like I have a gay best friend again! I miss Angel. She had the best taste."

"Well I'm sorry if I like vaginas, Maureen, but it's not like you don't," he said drily. It might have been summer, but his bare legs still felt too cold- he wasn't used to not having a layer of blonde hair covering the pale, smooth surface, and every little breeze made him shiver. Or maybe that was just his nerves. Lately, Maureen had been treading far too close to the real issue at hand, and he wondered how much she knew about his feelings for Roger some of the time.

Maureen threw her head back and laughed. "Given," she conceded, watching him start to get the hang of walking in the heels with an amused smile. "So, how do you like the skirt?"

Truth be told, Mark didn't really mind the simple black skirt he was wearing. It wasn't the first time he'd worn one- but, of course, the only other person who knew that was Maureen. (Again with the signs. Mark wondered if maybe he was just doomed to be oblivious.) It came as a surprise to him just how MUCH he didn't mind the skirt, the blouse, even the godforsaken heels.

The makeup he minded.

"It's fine, but can I please wash this ridiculous pink shit off my face?" he whined, pushing Joanne gently away and wobbling for a few seconds on his own before windmilling forward back into her. "Fuck."

"Nope." Roger's voice was slightly less taunting now, but it still grated on his nerves as much as it made his heart flutter. Fucking contradictions… The guitarist, smiling brilliantly at the sight of his friend in women's clothing, pulled the tab on a can of Coke with a crack and sipped at it as he strode towards Mark. "I won fair and square, Cohen. You'll just have to deal with the consequences."

"It wasn't my idea in the first place," the filmmaker countered, pouting and leaning away from him. Maybe it was just the girly clothing but the urge to throw Roger down and ride him like a stallion had gotten exponentially worse in the past two days. Then again, maybe it was just his own twisted thinking. If Roger liked women and he was technically a woman, then shouldn't he be fair game?

_Shut up, Cohen._

Shaking the thought from his mind, he flinched slightly as Roger pulled him away from Joanne with one hand and, grinning, spun him around. It took all of his admittedly poor foot-eye coordination to keep upright- yelping, he clung to Roger's shoulders, not even trying to stop the beet-red blush on his cheeks. "ROGER."

"Yes, Marky?" Roger asked cheekily, swaying back and forth with him to what was probably the music in his head. "Or… what are we calling him now?" Distracted, he looked back at Joanne and Maureen, both of whom were biting their cheeks to keep from laughing at Mark's predicament. " Marcia? Mary? I like Mary." He turned back to Mark with a smirk. "It fits you."

"… dare I ask why?" Mark muttered, licking his lips nervously. He couldn't help but think about how close Roger's lips were to his right now… As the guitarist leaned in closer, his heart seemed to be trying to beat right out of his chest. But Roger leaned around to put his lips to Mark's ear instead.

"Virgin," he murmured silkily, again with the smug, suggestive tone, and Mark nearly fainted right there.

"I'm NOT a virgin," he protested immediately, jerking away. Roger kept a firm grip on his waist with one hand, the other holding his Coke. He kept smiling, infuriating as always, even when Maureen thankfully jumped in.

"I can verify that," she said, and Joanne frowned as she smacked her ass, almost as if making sure she knew who had claimed her now. Grinning, Maureen turned and wrapped her arms around her fiancée, enjoying the extra attention.

"Maybe not, but the other way you are," Roger shrugged, taking another sip of his soda.

"Other way?" Furrowing his eyebrows, it took Mark a moment to decipher this, and when he did he became a spluttering mess. "Wh-ROGER, God!" He smacked his roommate on the arm reproachfully. If he had been red before it was nothing compared to now. "How many times have we gone over this?"

"_I'm not GAY, Roger, golly gosh!"_ The guitarist mocked in a falsetto. He dropped the voice and snorted derisively, shaking his head and regarding his friend in amusement. "Give it a rest, you pussy. You'd think swinging the other way once in a while was some kinda crime."

"It's not- but I don't," Mark felt the need to reiterate the lie, twisting his hands anxiously behind his back. He hoped desperately that Maureen didn't say anything. If anyone had insight on Mark's questionable sexuality, it was his girlfriend of two years.

After all, she hadn't FORCED him into that skirt. She also hadn't asked him to moan out the name of his college roommate…

He swallowed down the feeling that maybe he was more transparent than he thought and glared at Roger, whose incredulity only grew.

"Are you telling me you've NEVER had a fantasy about the same sex?" He seemed almost outraged at this, turning again to the lesbians kissing behind him. "Back me up here."

"That is a little vanilla of you, Marky," Maureen commented, hiding her I-know-something-I'm-not-supposed-to smile. Joanne nodded in agreement, and suddenly all eyes were on him. He stammered.

"I- I'm not- I mean-" Unsure of what he wanted them to think now, he fell silent, eyes darting nervously between the three of them. Maureen looked ready to keel over laughing, just barely restraining herself, but Roger was staring him right in the eye. He had a challenging look about him.

"Come on," he said, leaning down to set his Coke on the floor in order to place his other hand on Mark's waist and draw him closer. Again, Mark's heart nearly stopped. He was glad he wasn't wearing pants, because they'd be getting pretty tight about now. "Everyone fantasizes about the same gender at least once." His lips really were alarmingly close now, but Mark found himself unable to move away, desperately wishing that Roger was really about to kiss him. "I know you have," he singsonged under his breath, hands skimming down to Mark's ass, just barely brushing over it-

"Alright, that's enough, Roger." The filmmaker had never hated Joanne before, but at that moment he wanted to throttle her. Roger released him and pouted at her, crossing his arms. She gave him a stern look. "Enough molesting him, you've humiliated him enough for the week. He's not REALLY a woman, you know."

No, he wasn't, but that didn't make him want Roger any less. Attempting to regain his cool, he stepped backwards, hardly aware that he was balancing perfectly on the heels, and pretended to grimace.

"Urgh." He dusted himself off, smoothing the skirt down- not the front, of course, unless he wanted them all to see his junk outlined clearly against the fabric- and giving Roger a faux annoyed look. "Personal space, Roger. Boundaries. We had this talk, too."

"I was just having some fun. Jesus." With a disgruntled huff, Roger picked his can back up and whirled, stalking back to his room. "Tell me when somebody out here lightens up. I'll be in my room."

Mark watched him go in dismay, poorly disguised. Maureen followed his gaze and lost the battle to keep the enormous grin off of her face.

"Marky's in looooove," she sang. Without thinking he shushed her, bright red all over again, and belatedly realized that he was only confirming the statement. Internally, he slapped his forehead with his palm and berated himself. Well, that was that. Cat was out of the bag.

"Shut it, Maureen. I'm a guy. I'm not in love, I'm in lust." If only he could convince himself of that. "Damn it, I'm going to kill him…"

Joanne crossed her arms and scrutinized him curiously, now smiling herself. Mark was about sick of people smiling at him like that. Knowingly, she nodded. "Smitten," she confirmed, making Maureen stick out her tongue smugly at her ex.

"I'm not- oh, fuck it, don't believe me then." Frustration mounting, he began to storm away as Roger had and realized a little too late that he was still in high-heels. He tripped and went sprawling onto the floor with an "oof!".

"Graceful," Maureen snorted. He didn't even bother giving her a look, just grumbling and taking the shoes off, chucking them in her direction. Mark got back to his feet and stormed off, skirt billowing around his legs.

He wasn't in love with Roger… Maureen was crazy, and her wife, too.

So why did it make him so nervous?

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

"Hi, sweetie, glad you could make it," Roger cooed, smirking and grabbing at Mark's hips as he passed. He scowled but didn't make any other protest. Five days in, he knew it was useless. Today the outfit was at least plausible: Maureen had gotten him into a pair of short shorts and a v-neck and he honestly didn't look a lot different. Unless you counted the copious amounts of eyeshadow she'd painted onto him. But that couldn't be helped.

"You'd better be really fucking good," Mark replied, glaring, and leaned against the wall. His camera had stopped rolling a couple of minutes ago but he didn't see any need to re-wind it just for this. Roger's new band was nothing special. It was a motley group of early-twenties dropouts with stud earrings and spike collars and Roger should have been ashamed to associate with them. The only one who looked remotely tolerable was the other guitarist, Liam, who was regarding the others with a look that spoke volumes about his taste in company.

"Hey. Give me a break, man." Sidling closer, Roger added under his breath. "They're just kids, but I need a band. I might be able to make somethin' of em."

"Good luck with that." The filmmaker was less than thrilled to find out that he would be posing as Roger's "girlfriend" in front of these wackjobs, but it was something to do. He'd barely left the loft in the past few days unless forced, and even then it was hard to get him more than a block away from the loft. Being a woman didn't really agree with him.

"Hey," Roger said again, pouting, and Mark's blue eyes zeroed in on his roommate's lips instantly. His heart fluttered in his chest. "Be nice." He leaned in to peck him on the cheek, stubble grazing Mark's nose, and then returned to the group, hopping up on the stage. It was their first real rehearsal and he wanted to secure his place at the head of the group. Mark was just supposed to be there for moral support, and maybe a few laughs- but now all he could think of was how close Roger's lips had been to his.

God damn, but he was whipped. He would have done anything to get Roger to kiss him.

The Fender was strummed a couple of times and he began to zone out. Mark had been to a million of Roger's rehearsals and this one would be no different. He focused instead on his own perplexing feelings, many of which he had yet to decipher.

Maureen and Joanne had been no help to him over the past week. They'd put him into ridiculous outfits, played with his hair, slathered makeup on him and pushed him repeatedly into Roger, delighted when Mark stuttered and blushed and ran away, leaving a confused rocker in his wake. Every touch from Roger lately had become something he cherished, more so than usual, and he couldn't stop himself from remembering the little instances of contact later in bed, legs spread and hand creeping down between them to relieve the pressure. Hopefully he wasn't too loud. Roger featured in every single one of his fantasies.

Up on stage, the songwriter looked as sexy as ever. His jeans showed off his ass, his shirt clung to the hint of muscle in his chest and one of his calloused hands gripped the neck of the guitar, the other using running through his messy hair. Mark wished he could run his fingers through that hair. His thoughts were getting progressively creepier. Maureen had made him paranoid. Everything was a clue now; was this what it was like to really, truly be in love with someone? Because if it was, it was awful.

Perfect and awful, because he couldn't imagine a better object of obsession.

"You're a model prisoner…" Roger's voice seemed to echo his thoughts as he began singing, his band struggling with the new song on their instruments, and Mark bit his lip.

Would it be so bad to love Roger? Of all of the people he knew, Roger was his favorite. He was the person Mark wanted to be around every minute of every day, despite how annoying he could get. If Roger ever actually took the hint and left him alone, it only made him twitchy. Wondering, wondering, what the rocker was up to wherever he was. What he was thinking about. Who he was with.

It occurred to him that this was vaguely stalkerish of him, but he'd rather call it love. Up on stage there was a horrid twanging sound and a bout of cursing that he studiously ignored.

Okay. He nodded to himself, trying to swallow that. So maybe he was in love with Roger, just a little bit. It made sense that he would be. Roger was handsome. He was funny. He was smart when he wanted to be and he liked having Mark around, or so Mark liked to think. He had a beautiful voice and a creative mind and shit, how hadn't he seen this before?

Love had crept up on him over the years without his noticing. Now, he had to do something about it.

Beginning to warm up to the idea, Mark felt himself smile. Roger had mentioned something about being bi once, right? He could work with that…

"What're you thinking of?" He jumped as Roger's voice materialized right beside his ear, hot breath making him shudder with all kinds of dirty thoughts. He spun around, stammering, and Roger laughed as he clapped him on the shoulder. "Idiots can't get the song right and Terrence's E string snapped, so we're waiting for him to run down and get a new one," he explained, nodding to the other members of the band lounging around on the stage, talking. "I thought I'd come down and check on my favorite girl in the whole wide world."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." It was hard to admit that he was actually beginning to see the humor in his situation, but Roger's jokes really did tickle him sometimes. He smiled crookedly, remembering the plot he'd just begun forming. "When is this over?"

"In a coupla hours," Roger shrugged. He had gotten a lot more comfortable touching Mark recently, constantly hugging him or ducking down to sweep his feet out from under him and catch him in his arms more than once. It was all for show, but it made Mark's heart pound in a pleasant way. "Why? In a hurry to get out of here?"

"In all honesty, no…" Now he just needed to work up his courage and fight fire with fire. Roger seemed to recognize the mischievous glint in his eye because he furrowed his eyebrows, taking a half step backwards.

"Really?" he asked guardedly.

"No. I kind of like being your girlfriend." Grinning wickedly at the shocked look on Roger's face, Mark grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and tugged him into a kiss on the mouth. A jolt seemed to go through him, setting his nerves aflame, and he hated to break away but now wasn't the time to seem desperate. It was time to torture Roger. The guitarist was dumbstruck, mouth agape as he stared at Mark with a whole new perspective of him, and on the stage his bandmates guffawed.

"Nice boyfriend, Davis!"

Boyfriend… Mark liked the sound of that. Maybe by the time the week was over he would have Roger convinced. As it was, he just smirked and folded his arms, batting his eyes.

"What- did you-" Roger spluttered, touching his lips like he could hardly believe it. And he probably couldn't. Mark wasn't the type for this kind of stunt.

"If I'm going to be your girlfriend, I'm going to do it thoroughly." With a nonchalant shrug, Mark wound his camera back up and raised it to point at Roger's baffled face. "Smile!"

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

"You _didn't_," Maureen gasped, gleeful, and he nodded with a shy grin.

"Yeah. I don't know… It was amusing. You should have seen his face." He laughed as he remembered it. Roger wouldn't underestimate him anymore. He was probably still being tortured by the punks in his band about the kiss that he was too dazed to protest. "I kind of enjoyed it."

"Well I _hope_ so," she giggled, carefully brushing a second coat of clear polish onto his nails. Mark would never admit it, but he actually sort of enjoyed wearing nail polish. It gave him some incentive not to chew his nails to the quick, and the result was a filmmaker much less bitchy. "You're the one lusting after him, after all."

"Mmhm…" At that, he sighed. His flimsy plan, only half-constructed, was already creaking under the weight of his doubt. He was afraid that it might fall to pieces- and that's why he was sitting on the couch with a cross-legged Maureen, letting her reapply his makeup.

If anyone was going to push him, it was her.

She seemed to notice that he was losing steam, because she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a light squeeze. "Aww, Marky. Don't worry. If Roger's going to go for any man then he's going to go for you."

"I'm not much of a seductress, Mo."

"Well that's what I'm here for, silly!" She ruffled his strawberry hair as she pulled away and he just barely resisted the urge to destroy the last of his masculinity by telling her not to touch it. Sometimes even Mark had to remind himself that skirts and makeup and a hair straightener didn't mean anything as long as he still had a penis. He was no Angel- he couldn't do this all the time, but it was oddly nice.

Some guy had bought him a drink just last night at the club, but he shuddered as he remembered that. It would have been a kinder gesture had the man kept his hands- and his bulge- to himself.

But Roger had rescued him with a few clipped words, a shaken fist and a menacing growl and it had only served to make him that much more besotted with his roommate.

"Something tells me that you're just going to help make me look ridiculous," he muttered, dodging her hand just barely as she swatted at him in annoyance. He gave her a _look_. "You have to admit, Maureen, you're not opposed to teasing me right along with him."

"But I have bigger fish to fry," she reminded him, screwing the lid back onto the polish and lifting his hand to blow on his nails gently, admiring her masterpiece. She glanced up from under her eyelashes with a scheming smile and it was so breathtaking to look at her that Mark was reminded for an instant what had been so appealing about her way back when. Her voice shattered the illusion. "I'm trying to get my ex LAID."

Mark made a face at the crude gesture she made then, pulling her hand away from her. "I don't know if he'll necessarily want to-"

"I'm getting you LAID!" He backed off as she insisted, raising his hands in surrender. Roger's lips against his were all he could think about anyways, so it wasn't worth arguing.

If Maureen could get him laid, he didn't know how he would ever repay her.

"Okay, okay… So- how are we going to do it?"

"Oh. I have a plan. Listen up…"

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

It was with considerable apprehension that Mark Cohen sat in the center of Roger Davis' bed, bare but for a skimpy set of lingerie that he really hated to think about. It was the last day of his bet-losing week of forced crossdressing and Maureen had insisted. He supposed he should have thought before asking her if there was any way he could pay her back for her involvement in the planning of the upcoming event.

It occurs to him that Roger's schemes always seem to have a distinct purpose, at least eventually. They always made an impression. A memory. And this one would, too, but not in anywhere near the same way…

But it didn't matter now. All that mattered now was that Mark was all dressed up with nowhere to go but into Roger's pants.

Originally, he was going to go with lines he'd thought up beforehand- but as he'd found more than a year ago, Mark was a lot more creative when he went off the script. So here he was, waiting impatiently for Roger to get home from the bartending job he'd picked up in lieu of money from his awful band, and he felt like he was seriously in danger of a heart attack. He hoped that he wasn't all gross and sweaty by the time Roger did get there. It was more than likely that he would just sit here like an idiot and faint the moment his roommate walked in the door.

It went without saying that he was unprepared when Roger _did_ come home. The loft echoed with his less-than-stealthy footsteps and Mark sucked in a breath, on the verge of an anxiety attack. Oh God. What had he done? It wasn't like he could back out of this now. Even if he thought that he could change that fast, he was a little tied up…

Literally.

Never mind repaying her. He was going to kill Maureen.

He stiffened helplessly as Roger twisted the doorknob to his bedroom door, pushing it in. He probably thought that Mark was safely in his room, snoring away, and he was about to get the surprise of his life. And it wasn't necessarily a good one.

It just depended on how well Roger received his best friend coming onto him in women's clothing…

Roger stepped into the room, and Mark was almost thankful that he couldn't see his face in the darkness as he stopped and squinted at the bed. "Whose there- Mark?" He sounded incredulous and almost intrigued. "What are you…"

"This was NOT my idea," he blurted nervously, licking his lips and staring at Roger, pleading with him to let this go and not make it awkward. "It was all Maureen, I swear-"

He was cut off by his own anxiety as Roger strode immediately across the room and jumped onto the bed with him, grinning. "Hey," he purred. The smell of alcohol wafted to Mark's nose and he wrinkled it, heart sinking. So _that's_ why Roger hadn't started freaking out yet… His calloused index finger trailed down Mark's chest, toying with the lace at the top of the ridiculous, too-tight panties he was wearing. "What's the occasion?"

Feeling a little more candid, assuming that Roger wasn't going to remember this in the morning, he sighed and admitted, "I was kind of hoping that you'd help me out…" He didn't want to specify how, exactly, he wanted to be helped but the stirring so clearly visible through his silky undergarments should have been telling enough. Roger's hand was uncomfortably, teasingly close to there and he wasn't sure now if he wanted him to move his hand up or down.

"I can do that." Wickedly, Roger laughed and straddled his helpless roommate's lap, pushing him onto his back. His mouth attached itself to Mark's neck abruptly and made the filmmaker groan. He wondered if Roger was even aware of what he was doing- how was he supposed to tell how many drinks Roger had had without asking?- but he wasn't sure if knowing was going to be any help. Maybe he should just roll with it… and maybe THAT was his libido talking, because those panties were uncomfortably tight and Roger was warm, no, HOT in every sense of the word.

That tongue laved over his skin, lapping up any sweat that may have been there, and traced the delicate lines of his collarbone before returning to his neck and up to his ear. Mark's head spun, legs spreading almost unconsciously. He could hear himself panting and had no idea when that had started but who even cared at this point? Roger was ON TOP OF HIM.

On. Fucking. Top. Of. Him.

It was a wonder Mark didn't pass out…

"R-Roger…" he moaned, eyes falling shut of their own accord as Roger's hand dipped down and rubbed over the crotch of his unfortunate choice of undergarment.

"Shhh." Roger muttered into his ear, covering Mark's body with his own. They were just warming up and Mark couldn't help but begin to feel giddy about what he hoped were the coming events. "Just shut up and I'll make you feel good…"

**MRMRMRMRMRMRMRMRMR**

Roger did, indeed, make him feel good.

The filmmaker lay panting beside his ex-best friend and brand new lover, drenched with sweat and wrists raw. A puddle of sticky fluid dried rapidly on his stomach and chest but he couldn't find the strength to wipe it away, not now, not with Roger nuzzled against his neck and pressed to his side with a face-splitting grin still plastered onto him. No, he was far too comfortable, and far, FAR too much in heaven right now to care if he had to scrub extra hard in the shower tomorrow.

He was fairly certain that his mascara had streaked down his face during the main event but again, he didn't care. He didn't really like the makeup anyways.

And if he had called out "I love you" in the heat of the moment, well, Roger was drunk off his ass anyways.

The songwriter wrapped around him made a noise of contentment, almost like the purring of a cat and his heart ached in his chest. God, if this turned out to be a one night stand he was fucked beyond belief. There was no way, he knew, that this was ever going away. Get over Roger? Please. Mark still wasn't over Maureen. He didn't get over anybody, but especially Roger Davis.

"So." He started at the unexpected, low sound of Roger's voice by his ear. "Am I a good actor or what?"

"… What?" Abruptly terrified that this was some kind of cruel joke designed to trick him into admitting his true (rather embarrassing) feelings, he twisted around to stare into Roger's green eyes. In the darkness they stared lazily back, still glinting with mischief. "What d'you-"

"Dude, I don't get drunk on Wednesday nights." An incredulous snort. Mark was silent. A whole new element had just been added to the equation and he wasn't sure if he liked it. If Roger wasn't drunk, where was his insurance policy? He wouldn't be able to persuade him, now, that this hadn't happened. He had no way of erasing this night.

Just as the familiar paranoia that he had just damned himself to eternal embarrassment began to make him twitch, Roger sighed and cuddled closer, seeming genuinely relaxed and happy. "Mmm…" That sure didn't sound like someone who wanted to laugh at him. It just sounded like a post-coital moan. "God. I can't believe I just… God."

"Yeah," Mark whispered back. He was beginning to tense up, uncomfortable. Did Roger want him to leave now? Wasn't that how he usually worked, with all of those girls before April, before Mimi? Fuck and get out. But he was much too tightly wound around his roommate to move without disturbing him and so he stayed still.

Mark was beginning to see the humor in the way that he rationalized these things.

"The lace was a nice touch." Roger gave a breathy laugh. "Remind me to thank Maureen for that."

"Wait-" Something was beginning to dawn on Mark, something that he should have already been suspicious of. How long had he known Maureen? Too long to fall for her shit, or so he had thought. But this…

"Oh, yeah. She totally set you up, man." The guitarist sat up on his elbows and observed Mark speculatively. Mark couldn't help but observe him too, eyes roaming up and down the angles and curves of his long, lean body. Roger was beautiful. Not hot, not sexy- well, yes to both, but he was more beautiful than anything.

Ugh. He was turning into some sappy girl. He really needed to get rid of the makeup, and fast.

"You can't set someone up if they were bound to do the same stupid thing either way," he remarked, snorting at himself. Of course it was all Maureen. When wasn't it? Now the question was… Why did Roger want him in bed in the first place?

He was treading into dangerous territory. If Roger did want him, then it was so much trickier.

Did he want him just for sex? Friends with benefits? Mark thought he could do that, but it wasn't exactly what he wanted…

Because he was selfish.

Because he wanted Roger's love, too, as limited as it may be in the time he had left.

Roger tipped his head back and laughed at that, rough and unadulterated as usual. He leaned in and kissed Mark so lightly on the lips that he barely convinced himself that it really happened before pulling away, catching Mark's gaze. Although he was amused, his tone was more serious than Mark would have expected.

"I've been in love with you for ten years. The least you could do was notice. But I liked something stupid a lot better."

Mark blinked. And blinked again. And again. He couldn't process Roger's words. They were alien. They weren't, couldn't be, real. No, they couldn't be… Maybe they were just an echo from his personal dreamscape. Maybe he was asleep.

He fought the insane urge to slap himself.

_DON'T WAKE UP._

A moment passed and then two before Roger got impatient, waving a hand in front of his face. "Hello? Earth to Mark Cohen-" He snapped his fingers suddenly and leveled his voice to a monotone, mocking his roommate. "July third, 1991-"

"Fuck off, Roger, I'm trying to think." He heard himself say it, voice wobbly and aggravated, but what he was really focused on was rationalizing this. Okay. So Roger loved him. Good? Probably… Unless- unless he fucked it up. Unless Roger expected him to say it back right now, because he didn't think he could and oh GOD the pressure was on now, and he was going to start sweating again, oh no-

Roger's lips descended on his again, hands holding his jaw firmly in place as he sucked Mark's lower lip into his mouth, and the filmmaker groaned into it. His blue eyes snapped shut again as he poured all of his nervous energy into the passion of the kiss, not objecting when Roger climbed back on top of him and pressed him back into the mattress. When the guitarist broke the kiss this time he paused less than an inch from Mark's face, breathing the words onto his swollen lips.

"Done thinking?"

Mark nodded dumbly, staring up at him, heart hammering. Everything seemed to slow down. And then-

Then he grew a pair of balls and kissed him back, tugging him down forcefully by the roots of his hair.

He could feel Roger's smile against his face and it made him smile back, an uncontrollable wave of emotion welling up in him. The mask he'd been wearing for so many years was cracking and his entire body felt the liberation of the act, relaxing at last. He was free. His week as a woman was over and his lifetime with Roger had begun, pushing back all of the lonely, confused days and weeks and months preceding it.

"Say it. Say you love me," Roger growled insistently, and Mark had to restrain his laughter at his new lover's pouting.

"I love you," he admitted with a crooked smile flipping his sweaty, still-straight hair out of his eyes and wrapping his arms around Roger's neck.

"Good." Content with this answer, Roger pulled him into his chest and rolled them over so that Mark was lying atop him, grunting slightly as he leaned up to kiss the filmmaker's temple. "Any chance you still want to be my girlfriend?"

"I wouldn't let the opportunity pass me by…" He paused. "Does this mean you'll stop whining when I try to film you?"

"Mark- God. Didn't you learn ANYTHING from the past week?"

The darkness did nothing to conceal their twin smiles, and with that the night was over. Mark laid back onto Roger's chest and listened to his heartbeat slow, his breaths even out. Slowly, his eyes closed and he let himself drift off as well. Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten, first to amethyst and then to a brilliant pink.

Mark and Roger were asleep. But there was nothing wrong with that.

After all, they had their entire lives to look forward to. Years full of sunrises. Together.

In the end, Roger's stupid ideas always had a point and they always made memories. And this one was Mark's favorite of all.


End file.
